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Monday, January 31, 2011

Tw' iter

After discovering a give us $40 and we'll inert your name and a few traits into a book thing I got a wild and crazy idea to write my own oh we'll call it story and instead of inserting just myself and my eye color (blech) I shall use all of my various twitter friends in some for or capacity. This is what follows.

The sky roared with thunder not born of clouds or storms. People all across the land cried out as lives fractured under the heavy hand of their eternal nemesis. Wreckage and metal rained down from the sky while the monsters ripped apart all ships trying to make a getaway from the planet, all except one small insignificant craft. The lone woman turned for a brief moment from her controls to take one last glimpse as her home burned beneath before placing in the final destination and where rested all her hopes for salvation – the strange space station known as Tw’ iter.

Many are not sure what to make of Tw’ iter, it is so old that it has passed from a thing of legend to an antique to kitsch and then back to a legend again but one where you really don’t want to think about what’s on the walls and if anyone has ever thought of cleaning out the grease traps. It was said that if you needed to find anything in the universe your best bet was Tw’ iter either through a respectable merchant who would more than happily take your gold and when you were busy browsing their wares strip your ship down to scrap or you could pay for a bounty hunter that were a dime a dozen to hunt it down probably from the respectable merchant two doors down.

Tw’ iter was where people went to see and be seen though generally only by themselves. It was the second loudest place in the universe after the Big Bang.

“I SAID IT WAS JIM, HIM WHO OH FOR THE LOVE OF WOULD EVERYONE SHUT UP!”

“WHAT DID YOU SAY?!”

This would have to continue for about 5 million pages to have an accurate reflection of just how loud the station is but we have a story to be getting to and one of our many heroes just walked through the door. He was rugged (in that he looked like someone spun from a bunch of fibers and laid down on the floor for shoes) some might compare him to a handsome (in that he most resembled a carriage drawn by horses) but all of the lowly lives scattered from his wake, no one wanted to get on the Demon Dog’s side.

“Barkeep,” the demon mumbled at one of the numerous establishments set up to dispense with life fueling beverages and life forming edibles, “Give me your strongest stuff!”

The man, well for the sake of a lack of correct term in the English language we’ll call a man, shook his yarn hair and with the help of someone beneath pointed a finger, “Are you sure?”

The demon balked, never in his entire life had anyone dared question him in any decision. He struck fear into the hearts of his common man. Well he struck something anyway. “I said give me your strongest stuff and I meant it!”

Giggling the barkeep vanished beneath his wooden counter (where he got a bit of wood in this gods forsaken bit of space trash was anyone’s best guess) there were some strange noises coming as though the same person was having a rather heated pun battle with himself and he kept railing against an Andie Macdowell. An agreement seemed to be reached and appearing abruptly the puppet’s cloth arm heaved a giant sledgehammer up above smashing it straight down upon the demon dog’s head.

He only had time to widen his eyes before oblivion opened around the bounty hunter and he crashed to the floor. Anyone who’s been to Mr Wordsworth’s bar and novelty shop knows the secret, if you ask the puppet for anything he seems to be selling he’ll simply whap you over the head and steal all your belongings while you’re passed out on his floor. It used to be written on a sign outside but like all things on Twi’ ter that got stolen the minute he nailed it up.

Strangely this has done nothing to deter his business and people line down the street to get whacked over the head by him every Saturday night. This is really all you need to know about the denizens that haunt the station.

“Oi, are you all right?” A steel toed boot kicked our, oh let’s call him, hero hard in the kidneys. He’d been rather enjoying his nap, the floor wasn’t too hard and after Wordsworth came to find that his latest victim had exactly nothing to his name had left him to the first of his requisite 30 naps a day. And now there was someone trying to break him out of it.

“I’ll move along officer, nothing to see,” he started to roll over his strange cobbled together trench coat (made out of five others and one petticoat) catching his arms underneath him.

The steel toed boots were getting impatient and helped to roll him over a bit faster, “I ain’t no officer, you twat.” Finally in a position to stand the Demon could take in the owner of the steel-toed boots who hadn’t left the lights on.

She, for it was quite obviously a she, stood in nothing more than a very tiny wossa things that people wore when around large warm sandy bodies of water and it looked as though it was clinging rather dearly to her womanly splendor. The demon realized he’d been staring at her chest for a bit too long just as he also came to notice the 6 foot sword she had somehow managed to stash on her back, the blade tip banging hard against the ground as she bounced from one foot to the other.

He gulped, only one race was some call it brave (other’s fool hardy, daring, and the dumbest fucking thing they ever heard) to bring a knife to a laser blast fight – she with the cacasding red hair was of the Amazonian tribe. No one was exactly certain if they were a separate species or just a bunch of well endowed women who snapped one day during a modeling gig and took to chopping off the heads of anyone that displeased them. “I’m sorry I was just going over there and . . .” he started, trying to shuffle off.

The woman looked at him and smiled, exactly one person had lived to see an Amazonian smile and he now spent his days in a padded room talking a great deal about pudding, “What’s your name, stranger?”

“Me, oh I’m absolutely no one special. Nope, not me. No one important and I,” the look she gave him could melt butter on Pluto, “Devtony, that’s what name they gave me but most call me hey you, ha ha ha,” He looked down at her fiery hair and fierce face (though Devtony looked down on everyone, that tended to happen when you were seven feet tall and had an unhealthy fixation on your shoes).

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